


From the Top (Kuryan)

by AfterDarcotex (decotex)



Category: Glee, High School Musical (Movies)
Genre: M/M, carson i did the thing, kuryan
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-22
Updated: 2015-10-22
Packaged: 2018-04-27 13:42:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5050711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/decotex/pseuds/AfterDarcotex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>New Directions travels to Reno for the St. Richard's Invitational Sing-Off. Everything is kind of a mess, except for their replacement pianist, Ryan Evans, who is talented, mysterious, and (in Kurt's opinion), kind of cute. </p>
<p>Feat. mystery, intrigue, divas, and bad event management.</p>
            </blockquote>





	From the Top (Kuryan)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stuartprincess](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stuartprincess/gifts).



There were five days until the St. Richards Invitational Sing-Off, and as expected, everything had gone to shit.

One of the celebrity judges had already been kicked out of the hotel bar, and the sound system was working fifty-fifty at best. The event had devolved into a series of interconnected crisises, all half-handled by a frantic event staff, who were collectively cursing the guy who decided to hold this event in Reno.

One such crisis was occurring now, on the main stage, during Group 7's scheduled rehearsal time.

"Maybe we could just do it acapella," suggested Artie.

"We can't just - we - how could you possibly-" Rachel flailed. "Artie, I do not have the energy to deal with unhelpful suggestions."

"Of course. How stupid of me. I'll just be over here," he mumbled, backing away slowly.

"It's too late to rewrite the whole thing acapella. We created this whole arrangement with accompaniment. We need a pianist," said Kurt, who, in Mr. Schuester's absence, had declared himself the logical successor, and was trying to channel some of Schuester's saintly patience.

"Are you sure Steven can't make it? Like we could practice without him, and then maybe he could just show up for the final performance."

Quinn nodded. "Yeah, maybe he'll get better. How long does it take a broken hand to heal? Two days? Three?"

"Look, I don't need-"

"William McKinley High, Group 7, you have forty-five minutes left on the main stage."

Rachel threw up her hands. "I'm calling Schuester."

"Stop right there, Rachel Berry!"

Everyone paused, mid-argument, to look at Kurt.

"Schuester sent us alone because he believed we could handle it. Now we can call and ask him to leave during teacher evaluation week and risk his job to come rescue us, or we could handle this like adults," he announced, adjusting the cat ears on his leopard print beanie.

"Well," said Rachel, crossing her arms. "I guess. But you don't have to be so dramatic about it."

"Oh but I do."

He turned, trying to suppress his impending aneurysm, and walked up to the microphone at the front of the stage that faced the near-empty auditorium.

"Does anyone here play piano?"

A boy who had been talking to the theater director turned around. "Yeah?"

"Get up here."

"Kurt, he doesn't know our cues," whispered Rachel. "He's going to come it late or early or something and it's going to put me off."

"God forbid."

"Hi?"

The boy had pulled himself onto the stage and was standing at the edge.

Kurt walked over and led him to the piano. "Okay, one; for future reference, never climb onto the stage. Always take the stairs. It's unprofessional. And two; we've been working with a very talented pianist on this song for months, but he's not here so you've got to do your best. Just try to follow along, and if you can't we're practiced enough to continue without you. Got it?"

He sat down at the piano and stared at the sheet music in front of him. "I think so."

"Good." Kurt turned on his heel. This week was going to go well, even if he had to spend every waking second wrestling it into submission. He took a deep breath. "From the top."

\--

Several minutes later, they were deep in concentration, working on the third verse. Kurt was giving orders.

"Quinn, try to enter a little earlier in the first measure. Rachel, you were-"

"Don't say it. I know."

" . . . flat. Tina, louder on the chorus. And Steve, good job. A little more crescendo on the verses."

"Not Steve, but thanks."

Kurt turned around. He'd forgotten, honestly, about the blonde boy he'd stolen.

"I . . . oh. You picked up on this very quickly."

"Yeah," said Artie. "You're almost as good as Steve, and you've only been playing it for like five minutes."

He smiled. "You all make it easy. You're very good."

"True," nodded Kurt, turning back to his group. "Let's start again."

\---

Their first practice went surprisingly well, barring their earlier accompaniment problems. Kurt felt like they were just beginning to improve, when they were all too soon kicked off of the main stage, usurped by the Oak Valley High Bluejays.

"Good work today," said Kurt, addressing the rest of the team in the hallway outside of the theater where they'd been exiled to. "It was a good start. Of course, there's a lot of refining to do, a lot of polishing, but all things considered I think we have a shot at placing."

"I agree," said Rachel. "Anyway those Bluejays looked like novices. I think it's fair to remove them from our list of serious competitors."

Artie raised his hand. "Um, I'm all for winning, but . . . can we go? This is Reno, and there's an all-you-can-eat buffet downstairs calling my name."

“Yeah, anyone want to hit up the slots? Anyone? Just me?” said Puck.

"Well, we can't use the auditorium anymore today anyway. You're excused. Same time tomorrow. Oh, that reminds me." Kurt turned to the blonde boy, who'd been swept along in the rush to get out of the theater. "You. What's your name."

"Ryan, sir." He saluted, which-but Kurt didn't have time for adorable boys today.

"You will be here for practice tomorrow."

"Uh, sure. Yeah, I can do that."

"Also I'm going to need to practice my solo. Say, seven? Tonight?"

"Yeah, I guess-”

"Good."

\---

Kurt was going through their arrangement when Quinn showed up at his hotel door, holding two cups of hot tea.

“For the throat,” she explained. “Can’t have us losing our voices for the big day.”

They sat on either side of his bed. Kurt sipped his tea suspiciously.

“So, you’ve been . . . intense, lately,” she said, eyeing the pages of music spread across his bed, marked with red pen.

“Schuester’s not here. Someone has to be.”

“Is that really all?”

Carefully, Kurt set his mug down on the bedside table.

“Quinn, you may find this hard to believe, but back home, we’re not very popular.”

“I find that very believable.”

“I mean, you’re popular. But the rest of us are stuck living our high school fantasies vicariously through the _Heathers_ musical. Which is fantastic, by the way. My point is that as long as we’re in that town, at that school, surrounded by those people, we’re going to be nobodies. But here?” He gestured at the balcony window, which offered a view of the Reno skyline. “Here, nobody knows who we are. There’s no Coach Sylvester, no neanderthallic football players-except for the ones we brought-, no insane rival glee clubs out to get us-it’s a fresh start. For the first time ever, we have a chance.”

“To win?”

“To _live,_ Quinn. Just for a week. But I intend to make the most of it.”

They sat, watching as the lights of the city twinkled red and purple.

“A fresh start,” said Quinn, thoughtfully. “I suppose that could be nice. For everybody.”

Kurt’s phone rang.

“Hello?”

He listened, sighed, and then hung up and closed his eyes.

“I swear to God.”

“What?” Quinn asked.

“We can’t practice in the theater from Wednesday on. They’re using it to rehearse the celebrity number.”

“Then where are we supposed to rehearse? Our rooms?”

“God, no. The acoustics are terrible in here.”

Quinn sighed.

"I bet the celebrity judges don't have to put up with this sort of thing. I bet they're having a great time."

\---

They were not.

"Somebody kill me," moaned Norean Kingsly, winner of American Idol Season 12. He collapsed onto the only armchair in the "celebrity break room" (Conference Room #3) and swung his leather platform boots over the armrest.

"Wanna make it a murder-suicide?" asked Brent Weize, famed country singer, who was, very appropriately, halfway through a beer (but was NOT wearing denim).

"Can you believe this room? It's gross, and-" Sharpay Evans gestured wildly, as if unable to summon a word to adequately convey the extent of her distress. "-and, and, small. And ugly. And the chairs are really uncomfortable. I can't work in these conditions."

"It's not so bad. We don't actually have to do anything until the rehearsals start on Wednesday."

"That just makes it worse," said Norean, who was not about to let the fact that he was sitting in a small armchair stop him from achieving absolute horizontal orientation. "It's boring. There's nothing to do."

"And there's too many damned kids around here. No offense," Brent added, nodding in Sharpay and Ryan's direction.

Sharpay flipped her hand. "Oh, none taken. I am appalled by the behavior of my fellow students on a daily basis."

"Are you alright, Ryan?" asked Norean, staring at him from across the room. "You're being awfully quiet. If you're tired, I'll walk you back to your room. Or we could go for drinks."

Sharpay waved her hand flippantly. "Ryan's usually pretty quiet on the outside. Inside, he's judging us all."

"I don't mind it," said Ryan. "They're all pretty nice. Anyway that was us, last year."

"You're so empathetic."

"Drop it, Norean."

"I have music!" announced the Celebrity Handler brightly as she entered the room, waving a handful of paper. "I have-oh. Should I come back?"

"It's fine," said Norean, waving her in. "We were just bonding."

The Celebrity Hander shuffled around the room, handing out pages of sheet music. "Can I get any of you anything? Lemon-water, coffee, juice . . ."

"I'll have a Shirley Temple. No ice," said Sharpay.

"Of course, Ms. Evans. And for you, Mr. Evans?"

"Nothing, thanks.”

Norean raised his hand. “An advil, please.”

“Of course, of course. I’ll just-I’ll be right back.” She ducked out the room.

Brent sighed into his beer. “Well, might as well get started.”

Norean covered his face with the papers and moaned, exaggeratedly.

“Seeing as we’re all professionals here, this shouldn’t take too long. My brother Ryan can-Ryan, where are you going?”

Ryan, who was halfway to the door, turned around. “I have somewhere to be. Don’t worry, I’ll look over the music and learn my part. Have a good practice.”

The door closed behind him.

“Mysterious, that one,” Brent said, looking at Sharpay.

“My brother is very talented. He won the All-Ages California Vocal Championship in 2011, and the Sir Rogers Music Composition Scholarship in 2012. I’m sure he can learn his part alone.”

“Cute, mysterious, _and_ talented.”

“Norean, _no_.”

\---

Kurt was waiting in the hall when Ryan arrived in the hotel lobby.

“You’re late.”

“Sorry.”

“Come on.”

Kurt led him down a hallway to a small conference room with barely enough room for the table, four chairs, and upright piano that it housed.

“I, um, made some changes,” said Kurt, looking hesitantly at the marks he’d made on his sheet music. At the time they’d felt important, but now they just looked excessive and confusing.

“It’s fine. I’ll follow.”

True to his word, Ryan followed Kurt’s various arrows, repeats, and complete rewrites scratched in the margins easily. They made good progress, up until the fifth measure of the last page.

“Wait, wait. Start over, top of the second page.”

They repeated the section four times before Kurt began to consider cutting it altogether.

Ryan stood up. "If I may make a suggestion."

"You may not."

He sat back down. "Right. Okay."

"From the top."

Halfway through the page, Kurt stopped singing and shook his head. "Okay, I give up. This isn't . . . it's not working. Ryan, go."

"Oh. Well, instead of a harmony based on octaves, try thirds? And maybe a sixth on the highest note, and then resolve in the next measure."

Kurt nodded, slowly. "I see. We'll try it. From the top."

\---

“You know,” said Kurt, as they were putting away their music. “You’re very good.”

“Aww. Thanks.”

“Do you take lessons?”

“I used to. Not anymore. And, by the way, I like your kitty beanie.”

“How sweet of you to say.”

They lingered.

_“So I heard this hotel was a two-story pool. Want to go check it out?”_ The thought had bypassed his brain’s filters and was .5 seconds from exiting his mouth when he caught himself.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, then,” Kurt said instead, walking away.

“Sure. See you tomorrow.”

**Author's Note:**

> I did it, Carson, I did it. And I have more chapters, too! 
> 
> Birthday gift for stuartprincess.tumblr.com!


End file.
